The face in front of him was blurred in the blinding lights from above and for a moment he thought he was under the water again, drowning. He tried reaching out for the pole, but his hands were pinned down and he could not lift them. He was trapped. He could hear strange noises, unfamiliar voices, but the words were inaudible, a susurration of murmurs too far away to make sense. He fought to take shallow breaths even as his lungs  filled  with air, forcing its way inside, each lift of his ribs an agony. His back and hips hurt, and his chest, pain so severe that he wanted to scream. But he could not speak, his mouth was filled with something hard, choking deep in his throat. All that escaped his lips was the faintest of groans as he twisted his body in a vain attempt to get to the surface. His hands restrained, his feet as well. Something heavy holding him down. No, not under water. Not on Earth. He was back on Ochio, in the tunnel. The aliens had come and he called for T’Shaan, all the while knowing it was hopeless. She was long gone from his mind, from his life. Then a hand stroked his face and he turned into the touch, blinking unbidden tears from burning eyes as air filled his lungs again and urgent voices spoke around him.

‘Shh… Don’t fight it. You’re safe Colonel. Go back to sleep.’ Not her voice, but a kind one, and trustworthy. Like his friend. And, despite his panic, obedient as ever he closed his eyes and let himself drift into the trance that would ease the pain, help his body heal. There was a moment of dread, but someone was there in his mind, easing the panic, soothing the fear; not T’Shaan but someone else. Someone he trusted. A friend. And there was no greater honour than to have a trusted friend.

He slept.

Brightness woke him; patterns reflecting from shining metal, the intensity of clinical lighting above him. Nothing choking in his mouth or throat. He swallowed with care, anticipating pain with the simple movement, but it was bearable. He let the world come to him in dribs and drabs; a sound here, a touch there. The monotone beeps of a machine, dry lips sticking together as he tried opening his mouth, the smell of blood and antiseptic. The touch of cotton on skin. Copper in his mouth. A blur of movement close by as someone leaned over him. An unfamiliar face. A straw against his lips and water, cold and fresh. He drank thirstily, greedy for the moisture, aware that the fingers on his wrist were, even now, taking his pulse. There was a moment of panic before he felt the slow, almost painfully slow, beat of his heart. It all fell into place. Earth. He was on Earth. A Vulcan, pretending to be human. He felt his heart beat faster, moving into its normal rhythm as he stirred, but he forced it to slow again. An uncomfortable sensation but one that he could endure as long as he rested.

The fingers let go, his hand replaced by his side, the sheet straightened and smoothed. He watched her write details on a clipboard and check her watch before she looked up at him and smiled. ‘Awake now? Good. I’ll get the doctor.’

‘The General?’ His voice was a mere croak, rough and dry and she smiled again as if she had not heard him.

‘Don’t go back to sleep.’ She closed the door to the small room, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He closed his eyes and concentrated, pushing the pain away, refusing to acknowledge its existence.

It seemed a long time before the door opened again, but he was still awake. He lay there, reluctant to disturb the precious fragment of serenity he had achieved.

A familiar voice this time, a slow and amused drawl yet with a hint of concern. ‘Causing problems again, Colonel?’

Jackson. Straker struggled to sit up, only for Jackson to move forward, one hand raised. ‘No. Don’t move.’ A definite command, and so he did as ordered, relieved that one of the only two people on Earth who knew who he was, what he was, had arrived here.

He tried again. ‘Henderson?’ Less of a croak, the word audible this time.

Jackson tilted his head. Raised an eyebrow. ‘In intensive care. Multiple injuries, but the prognosis is somewhat encouraging.’ He put the chart back. ‘You have been unconscious for three days, even so you are recovering rather more rapidly than we anticipated. Is that normal? I mean….’ He sounded embarrassed.

‘For me, for my people?’ Straker nodded. ‘Yes, we can assist our bodies in the healing process.’ It was difficult to speak, gasping the words, and he was aware of his heart, of the need to keep still, of the monitor close by, sounding out every slow methodical beat. ‘Can you remove…’ he gestured to the machine. ‘I need…’

‘Of course. I had forgotten. Is it causing you discomfort?’ Jackson took the clip from Straker’s finger and flicked a switch. ‘You can do whatever is necessary to restore normal functionality now. I will instruct the staff that they are not to do any further observations. May I?’ Without waiting for an answer he put his fingers on Straker’s wrist and watched with a glint of curiosity as Straker took several deep breaths and released the tight control, letting his heart return to normal rhythm. ‘Fascinating. Perhaps one day you will allow me to study the process. It might have very beneficial uses.’

A clinical subject. An intelligent laboratory rat. That was all he was to Jackson, nothing more. There would never be any relationship between the two of them other than doctor and patient, but that was not important. He lay there as the doctor examined him, probing bruises and fractures, checking dressings and tubes. ‘I will remove the stitches later today; they are healing well. The chest drain however should stay in for at least another twenty-four hours.’ He washed his hands and sat down. ‘Now Colonel. Perhaps you can tell me what happened?’

Straker gave a bland recitation of the details, as far as he could remember them, but kept quiet about pulling Henderson out of the car, after all it had not been intentional, more a matter of being in the right place. ‘No one else survived did they,’ he ended. It was not a question. He knew the answer, but even though it was not his doing, not his fault, he grieved. More lives lost to the enemy.

He wondered what had happened to the remaining contents of his briefcase. The steel cuff was still around his wrist; it would need the key to remove it, but the only spare one was back in Henderson’s office. He fiddled with it, counting the links that remained, the last link scorched and warped as if caught in a flame and wrenched apart. There was nothing he knew of that could do that with such ease. He shivered and let go of the chain, sliding his hand under the sheet to hide the band from sight as Jackson talked about press releases and cover-ups and blow-outs. None of it mattered. He heard the details as if they were spoken to someone else; Henderson, should he survive, would be out of action for a very long time, and the whole series of meetings had been put on hold for the foreseeable future.

All his work, all his hours and effort wasted. Nothing would happen now. This world would be undefended, easy-pickings to be ravaged by aliens. Blood on his hands. Red blood. He looked at Jackson. ‘Please. I’m tired. Can we finish this later?’

‘Of course. I have all the relevant information I need. I will be here should you want me Colonel. I will let you know if there is any news.’

There was a serviceman in USAF uniform outside the door and for a moment Straker wondered if he was to be a prisoner here, but Jackson turned round, as if aware of his concern. ‘Just to stop any journalists now you are finally awake. They have been very persistent. Get some sleep Edward. I will see you this evening.’

When the next visitor entered the room, he was asleep. She stood beside the bed for a few moments before leaning over and kissing his forehead. So gentle a kiss that even he did not wake. One finger stroked his cheek, tracing the outline of soft bristles, the lightest touch on his lips. He took a deeper breath as if even asleep he was aware of her touch, then relaxed back into his dreams. She smiled and sat down, took a book out of her handbag and began to read, but every few moments she glanced up, seeing the slow rise and fall of his chest, the slight flutter of eyelids, fingers on his exposed hand twitching. Mary settled back, content to wait for him.

……

‘Ready for this Colonel?’ Jackson laid the pad on the bed. ‘I will be as quick as I can but I should warn you that the procedure will be uncomfortable. Are you sure you do not wish to wait for your next medication?

Straker shook his head. Even that small movement hurt, tugging at the stitches holding the drain in place. ‘Let’s get on with it, doctor.’ He lay still as Jackson raised the head of the bed and then scrubbed his hands at the small sink before returning to rest his fingers on Straker’s wrist.

‘That is fine. Now.’ He glanced at Straker’s pale face, seeing blue eyes lined with unspoken pain. ‘When I tell you, take a deep breath, hold it, and I will pull out the drain at that point. It is important you remain completely still until I have finished.’ He pulled on sterile gloves and leaned over the bed, fingers probing the site, a slight hiss of dismay when he saw swollen skin. He peered closer, one hand on Straker’s shoulder, not in comfort but to restrain should his patient make an untoward move. ‘Very good.’

It was a relief when Jackson stepped back for a moment, giving Straker a chance to compose himself. The touch on his shoulder was not like Alec’s, comforting and strong. It was cold. Ruthless in some respects. No, that was wrong; Jackson had nursed him with clinical efficiency, staying on duty until late at night and arriving early each morning.

Now it was the final procedure. Nothing else to do after this but regain his strength and wait for his orders. He forced himself to relax, aware that the effects of his last analgesic tablets, some three hours ago, were waning. He gripped the sheet, clutching it in rigid fingers as Jackson’s own fingers stretched wide the skin of his ribs and clamped the tube.

‘Deep breath and hold… Good. Now. Do not move Colonel.’ There was a brief agonising stab, a dragging sensation of something tearing itself from his ribcage, and then a cessation of the pain. Only a brief respite, as Jackson began removing the last stitch. A vicious burn. He was unable to stifle his gasp, gritting his teeth in anguish but even so, remaining frozen in place, unable to move for fear of awakening a deeper torment. He lay there, dazed, while Jackson dressed the wound with careful hands then picked up his equipment and tidied it away in silence.

Minutes passed. Straker lay still, sweat drying on bare skin while the throbbing faded. Jackson went to the sink, stripped off his gloves, washed his hands again and dried them. Neat, precise actions. In the quiet calm of relief, Straker’s eyes closed and he concentrated on loosening those tight muscles held rigid in anticipation of pain. He was aware of Jackson’s fingers brushing feather-light across his cheek, a rare touch given in solace and understanding, before the doctor closed the door leaving him in peace.